


Liturgy of the Hours

by Nadzieja



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (I can't believe that was already a tag), Alternate Universe - Priests, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, But in a melancholic way, Catholic Church - Freeform, Christianity, Cold autumn imagery, Common past, Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Ex-priest Crowley, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Hurt Crowley, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Meeting After Years, No sweet, Only bitter, Opinions, Pining, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rejection, They love each other, This is a sad piece, Why Did I Write This?, Yearning, but they can't be together, thread with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja
Summary: Crowley is not a priest anymore, he has buried that part of his past long ago. Yet, fate brings him back to Tadfield where he'll have to confront a ghost from his past he hasn't seen in a very long time (but whose facs might as well be carved onto his heart).-----Melancholic, full of depressing autumn imagery, and a very long waiting, fic. This is about rejection and loneliness that crawls under your skin, yet that only makes you cling even more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 38
Collections: Clerical Omens, Good Omens Human AUs





	Liturgy of the Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Alright y'all, this is sad, because autumn always makes me sad and apparently this is how I process it. Please mind the tags.
> 
> Loosely based on a [ series of comics by @gayforgoodomens. ](https://gayforgoodomens.tumblr.com/post/629969871731671040/gayforgoodomens-anyway-lemme-tell-you-about-my) Please check them out! They're amazing.
> 
> Thank you so much [ cassie-oh ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh) and [ burntongueontea ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnttongueontea/pseuds/burnttongueontea) for your amazing beta work!! I appreciate it so much ❤️
> 
> Thank you to [ @kaiannanthi ](https://kaiannanthi.tumblr.com/) who helped me come up with the title and to the tumblr gc who helped brainstorm it:)

> _You walked into my life_  
>  _On a soft October day_  
>  _You changed my heart, when_  
>  _you whispered my name_
> 
> _I cast away the world_  
>  _I cast away myself_  
>  _You see those things_  
>  _Weren't mine anyway_
> 
> _I took off my shoes_  
>  _I stripped off my shame_  
>  _But my fall begun_  
>  _Long before you came_
> 
> _I asked for nothing_  
>  _In my state of defeat_  
>  _I am no hero here_  
>  _Just a beggar at your feet_
> 
> _I cried not when_  
>  _you whispered goodbye_  
>  _There are worse things in life_  
>  _There are worse ways to die_
> 
> _On the background of leaves_  
>  _You walked back to your shrine_  
>  _It's when I knew the truth_  
>  _You were never mine_

Crowley huffs in exasperation as he moves the boxes around. Why, of all the places in the world, did he have to be offered a rent-free premise for his youth centre _in Tadfield_ ? A quiet village where, as unbelievable as it sounds, he had been vicar all those years ago. But, he supposes, _something something_ about beggars and choosers.

He wonders how scandalised his former parishioners will be when they see him now–sporting tight black jeans, shoulder-length hair, and a vintage car? He's prepared for their judgement, even though he got the Bentley (and not in the best state at that) as a thank you he got years later from one of the first kids he ever helped as a youth worker.

An unexpected knock jolts him from his reverie. _Strange_ , he thinks, they aren’t expecting anyone until tomorrow. He puts down the box he is holding and waves to Tracy that he'll get it. The door clicks open and Crowley is confronted by a face he hasn't seen in a very long time (but which might as well be carved onto his heart).

The sun comes out from behind the clouds, dispersing the grey of the October evening, and illuminates the man's soft blond curls like a halo – marking him as the angel he truly is. Even the sun knows Aziraphale's kindness.

He should say something, but words elude him as he stares at the familiar figure, muffled entirely in a thick beige coat and scarf.

"Crowley." Aziraphale is stating rather than asking. His eyes go wide as they greedily rake over Crowley's frame. The timber box he is holding drops to the ground, causing golden apples to scatter across the floor. "Oh dear!"

It's impossible, but the man sounds just as polite and fussy as Crowley remembers. 

They both jump to gather the fruits among a lot of _oh dears,_ _I'm so sorries_ and colourful autumn leaves, until Crowley reaches for the last apple and offers it to Aziraphale. Up close he can see the inevitable wrinkles around his eyes, sunken but still soft cheeks, the clerical collar around his neck. It strikes him how little the man has changed.

The way Aziraphale's blue eyes linger makes him feel like he's looking at the very core of Crowley’s soul. A heartbeat, and his gaze lowers to the fruit in Crowley's hand, taking it in quiet astonishment. Their fingers brush and a shiver runs down Crowley's spine. Whether it's from the cold or the rush of old memories, he doesn't know. 

The dust is brushed off and the images that faded to grey in his memory are suddenly technicolour once again. He remembers the stupidest things really; laughing while throwing leaves over each other's heads on a warm October day instead of raking them into neat piles as they were told, forgetting, if only for a moment, about the precise place the world had prepared for them.

"I didn't expect – although the townsfolk did mention a flash, er– fellow." Aziraphale says fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat. From the looks of it, the waistcoat saw quite a bit of fiddling.

Crowley smirks and disperses the memories with a wave of his hand, they flutter around his head stubbornly before floating away. Surely bygones are bygones and they can move past their history, maybe even become friends again?

"Aziraphale! What a... surprise. I didn't think you'd still be here."

Aziraphale winces as if Crowley struck him with a dagger and he might as well have, because the man responds; "Yes, I— the bishop hasn't assigned a diocese for me yet. I'm— well— still only a vicar here [1]. But I'm sure Gabriel has his reasons." He adds as if it was his fault. 

_Like hell he does,_ Crowley thinks but bites his tongue, not wanting to quarrel about this. At Aziraphale's age it was long overdue to be assigned his own parish, a place where he could lead instead of follow someone else's guide. Not that Aziraphale would complain about the slight to anyone, ever.

This institution is truly doomed if this is how it treats their angels.

"I came to welcome you to the parish. I brought apples, they're from our orchard." Aziraphale raises them up as if in explanation, with watery eyes and an unsure smile. _Apples_ , of all the things in the world, the biblical symbol of original sin. It gives Crowley an idea. 

"An- Aziraphale, why don't you come in? We were just making dinner. Do ignore the boxes though, we're still unpacking."

" _Oh_. Oh, I wouldn't want to be a bother," Aziraphale says in that heartbreaking way Crowley remembers, the one that makes him want to hug the man and not let go until he understands that—

"You're _never_ a bother. Come on, you can meet Tracy, my partner in crime, and the kids! I'll bake you an apple pie with this fruit offering of yours," he says, trying his best to be alluring. He sees that spark in Aziraphale's eyes again. The fact Crowley instantly knows how to make his friend smile ties a knot in his stomach and lights a fire in his chest. He's reluctant to answer the question that forms in his head; why is this so easy, so effortless? 

It all comes back to him in waves throughout the evening; as Crowley peels the apples, as they joke with Tracy over the pie dough and the flour gets spilled to the floor, as they talk during dinner. 

The way Aziraphale sighs over the apple pie after the meal is truly obscene and it really shouldn't, but it reminds Crowley of another autumn day, one quite a bit rainier than this one.

* * *

The two of them alone in his room, laughing over an old photograph. Crowley is leaning over Aziraphale's shoulder to explain something. His arm is on the man's back, his cheek next to his. Crowley's telling himself that it's nothing out of the ordinary, and it must not have been, otherwise Aziraphale would have said something, wouldn't he? His friend is looking at the photograph, but Crowley is looking at his lips and feels his world shifts on its axis. 

It all feels _right,_ as natural as breathing when Crowley lays his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. The man lets out a ragged breath. Crowley's fingers thread on their own over his friend's chest, feather-light touches discovering soft curves of his body.

Silence stretches into eternity. 

"Angel…," Crowley whispers first, but Aziraphale doesn't look back, doesn't move at all, muscles tensing under Crowley's fingers at the sound of the endearment.

"Crowley, our vows…," he murmurs in response and his tone is regretful, sharp, sour. Crowley withdraws, removing himself piece by piece.

"Vows, right," he mumbles, heart hammering in his chest. It’s not 'you're sick' or 'what is wrong with you’. It's just as much a confirmation, a silent understanding. Of course he had vowed and he’d meant it, he did, but that was _before_.

Before he knew there would ever be someone in his life who made his heart race. How could God let them meet, if there was no chance they could ever be together? Dangling the forbidden fruit in front of their eyes, like a test of obedience? Crowley is conflicted and half-ashamed, but his chest aches, his hands tremble, and he knows he cannot keep denying this forever. This realisation pierces him like a thorn, leaving behind a wound that will bleed forever.

In the days afterwards he locks himself in his room, fervently reading any texts he can find about celibacy and homosexuality. The more he reads about it, the more questions he has. Questions that no one can answer.

Crowley knows that celibacy wasn't always practiced in the Catholic church, it was only introduced in the 11th century, and that there is even hope the current pope might waive this rule. Particularly bizarre was a case of an Anglican priest who was allowed to retain his family—wife and three kids—when he converted to Catholicism [2]. How then could this rule be so firmly set in stone? And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

He traces all of the excerpts that are supposedly against gay relationships, reads them, re-reads and puts them into context.

Briefly, he thinks about switching to the Anglican church, he knows a few priests that had, but in the end that wouldn't bring him any closer to what he _really_ wants.

Quickly enough he realises the questions he’s asking are not welcome in the church. When you're young, people might tolerate your unconventional way of thinking, but if you're thirty and you still haven't figured yourself out, there's no patience left for you. You have responsibilities and you're expected to fulfill your duties. Your time's up.

To be fair, he gets plenty of warnings before he’s defrocked from the holy orders [3]. Not that there is anything he would do differently...

* * *

Tracy elbows him between the ribs, sending a wink his way and Crowley realises he's been staring. He'd almost forgotten he's not alone here.

Faust and Walkiria are too busy squabbling between themselves, but out of the corner of his eye Crowley catches Polly's gaze as they observe him closely, trying to read the atmosphere. They're a smart kid. Crowley sees so, _so_ much potential in them. 

A centre for troubled youth is a project on a whole different level, but Crowley loves it. He loves all those kids, each and every one in their own special way. The youth centre is supposed to be only a temporary safe haven for teenagers to come and go, but Crowley has never been big on following the rules and Polly has nowhere else to go. 

"...and what do you think, Crowley?"

"Sorry, what was that?" He looks around, suddenly jolted to reality. Everyone is looking at him as if waiting for judgement. It makes his skin crawl.

"I said you were a priest once. It's an incredible coincidence that you two are meeting here again after all those years. Some would even say it's God's doing. You don't feel a calling to go back?" Tracy asks out of the blue. Crowley never shared any details from his previous life, barely a few passing comments.

"Definitely not to that vicarage, I've spent way too much time there," he says quicker than he thinks.

"That's a bit rude towards our guest," she says, smiling nervously towards Aziraphale, but he just raises his cup, unfazed.

"Ah, I believe Crowley only meant because of how the church is run, it's an institution after all and thus has its own... issues."

Crowley's eyes widen once he realises how his words could be misunderstood, it happens to him often enough, and it's hard to blame anyone for it—everyone has their own experiences and wounds and no one's in his head to know what he means, but also – why is the worst always suspected of him? By everyone, except one person. "Yeah… sorry, Aziraphale’s right." Crowley rubs his eyes, tired.

With Aziraphale it was never like that. With Aziraphale he could just be himself, always. It makes him long for that easy understanding even more.

* * *

"You sure you have to go?" Crowley says to Aziraphale once everyone is gone and they're finally alone.

"I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. It was a wonderful evening. Thank you for inviting me, dear."

Crowley tries, and fails, not to read too much into this. He wraps himself around the door frame as seductively as he can possibly muster.

"You know, I have wine in my room. Chateau Lafitte 1995. I was keeping it for a special occasion." He doesn't know why he says it—it's obviously a bad idea—but Aziraphale looks at him, cheeks flushed, and how can he let him leave _now?_ Whatever happens, he wants this night to last. His reason left him long ago (around the time Aziraphale was devouring his homemade apple pie). He hates how Aziraphale always finds a backdoor to his heart, his smile a lockpick that bypasses all the failsafes Crowley puts into place. 

Aziraphale looks at him with something resembling longing, but also uncertainty and guilt. Crowley expects Aziraphale to politely refuse, but then his expression changes and a moment later Crowley is leading them both to his room. _It's just wine,_ he tells himself.

Or is it? 

A heartbeat, another wave of memories. These ones have been buried deep within him, not to ever be revisited again.

* * *

Crowley is telling Aziraphale he’s being transferred to another parish, somewhere far away, and then the impossible happens—Aziraphale takes his hand and leans in, very slowly, checking for Crowley's reaction the entire time, as if Crowley could ever refuse him.

It's a slow kiss, a joint discovery. Very clearly neither of them knows what they're doing, but it doesn't matter, because they're _finally, impossibly_ together. 

They break the kiss only to gasp for air, their foreheads leaning against each other.

"I've wanted to do this for so long." Aziraphale explains and Crowley's heart leaps.

"Angel, leave with me," he pleads, his pride long forgotten. This is all he's ever wanted, everything he's been waiting for. It doesn't matter what they'd be doing for a living, Crowley could be a waiter, he'd work all the shifts just so Aziraphale wouldn't have to—

"I can't."

Crowley's hands drop, he pulls back frightened. "I don't understand?"

"I've wanted— I didn't want to regret not doing it before… before you leave to another parish."

Crowley feels his veins freezing. "It was a goodbye," he spells it out, his own death sentence.

Aziraphale is a bundle of worries and regrets; he's fidgeting with his ring again, not knowing where to hide. "Yes," he says quietly. 

Crowley runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, and suddenly there isn’t enough air in the room. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

"Clearly." The word leaves Crowley's mouth before he can bite his tongue. Entirely too hurtful for no reason. "I shouldn't— I need to go."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says and Crowley turns around, hopeful still. "Keep in touch?"

He forces a smile, though it must come out as a weird grimace. But if there was one thing he can't imagine living without, it is keeping in touch with Aziraphale. "Yeah, angel. I will."

He never does.

He gets expelled before he settles into his new place, though, in retrospect, that might have just been a clever way of getting rid of him quietly. He can't imagine his fellow priests not knowing about it, especially Aziraphale.

* * *

"So what do you think?" Crowley asks once he brushes off the memory, feeling entirely too raw now. "About all this?"

He drops to the second-hand couch and throws his sunglasses to the side. Aziraphale puts both of their wine glasses on the small table between them and settles into the armchair. 

Aziraphale smiles the most honest smile Crowley's seen the whole evening. "I think you're perfect for this. Those kids need you, Polly especially. They love you and you love them."

Crowley feels like dissolving into the couch at how well Aziraphale knows him. They've only spent an evening together and the man can already read him like a map. Crowley hopes there are some things Aziraphale can’t read, like his constant pull to touch, to kiss. 

He knows now, more than ever, that they're so very similar in ways most people cannot see or understand. They share the same core, the same values, even if they chose different paths to them. They're like two halves of the same coin, two sides of one tree that got divided by lightning, but are still connected at the roots. Crowley had seen a tree like that on his way here and instantly felt he could relate to it on some profound level.

"Shut up," he pushes those thoughts away and reaches out under the couch, takes out another bottle of wine. Aziraphale's lips form a perfect 'o', a thing he has always done when he's genuinely surprised, and Crowley melts a little inside. 

Friends or not, he's not giving up the warm fuzzy feeling that's coiling inside.

He puts the bottle on the coffee table between them and when they both reach for it, Aziraphale's hand lands on Crowley's. By accident no doubt, he doesn't have any misplaced hope about their past. Or rather, he wouldn't if Aziraphale's hand didn't linger. Eventually, it withdraws a bit too abruptly and Crowley feels an ache in his chest.

"I've always wondered why you left, what pushed you over the edge," Aziraphale says suddenly and Crowley's breathing stops. He licks his lips, navigating around the right words.

"I didn't leave, Aziraphale. I was kicked out."

"There were rumours of course," Aziraphale hurries to say before the meaning of Crowley's words catches up with him. His gaze shoots up, his eyes widen, his peaceful demeanour disappears. "What? But then— why hadn't you called me?" 

The question feels sharp in his chest, pulling at him like a fish on a hook. He looks openly at Aziraphale completely forgetting the sunglasses are not on his nose anymore.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't—" Aziraphale remembers himself, looks away, swirling the red liquid in his glass. "Forget I asked."

But Crowley is already on his feet, closing the space between them. You can't put a rabbit back into the box, the wound in his chest is thrumming with hope.

"Would it change anything if I had?" He asks, leaning his hands over the armchair's handrests, leveling his gaze with Aziraphale.

They look at each other, so close Crowley can hear Aziraphale's ragged breath, can smell the scent of cinnamon and apple pie that clings to him. 

"I–," Aziraphale starts, his gaze flicking to Crowley's lips. "I thought–"

Crowley leans over him, climbs one leg over the armchair's handrest, but still hovering in the air, not yet daring to touch. "I couldn't forget you. I tried, but I couldn't."

They're only inches apart now, Crowley's fingers brush Aziraphale's arm, and Aziraphale doesn't flinch, doesn't move away. Their chests heave in unison. Crowley raises his hand to touch the man's beautifully flushed cheek, and catches his gaze as it drops to Crowley's lips. Aziraphale licks his own unconsciously, leaning closer.

Aziraphale's lips are soft and warm and he moves like he's never kissed before. Crowley instantly regrets that he has, that they've lost so much time, when they could have been learning each other, slowly discovering their edges and limits, together. In that moment he knows, with a sudden clarity that he's meant for only one man in the world. Aziraphale's tongue touches his lips, a shy invitation towards the unknown and Crowley drowns in it. 

"Angel…," he moans, plastering himself to Aziraphale's chest, straddling him in earnest now and leaving nothing for later. Aziraphale's hands dive into Crowley's hair, pulling him closer. Crowley rolls his hips against Aziraphale, meeting an equally hard bulge in his trousers and when the man moans, Crowley thinks he might lose his mind. "Leave with me, angel."

"Crowley, _please…"_

"Anything, angel, anything for you."

"I can't..."

Crowley freezes, swallows. His senses come back to him, reality crashes down around them. Aziraphale's hands are still in his hair, his veins throbbing painfully, but all he can do now is to stare at Aziraphale's collar—at the white strip of plastic tucked behind it. 

Slowly he takes his weight off Aziraphale and takes a step away. The man doesn't look up.

"Crowley, I'm… afraid. I–"

He looks at Aziraphale and sees the truth in his eyes, the hurt, the fear, the _love._ The man extends his hand to interlock it with Crowley's, squeezes it as a confirmation of— of what exactly? He doesn't know.

"It's okay," Crowley says, coming closer. Aziraphale's eyes are glassy and Crowley extends his hands again, this time to cradle his head, gently pressing it onto his own chest. His fingers buried in soft blond locks as Aziraphale curls against him. "I understand." He does and he hates it, but he _does._

He's angry, but not at Aziraphale, at the world, at the injustice of it all, at subjective rules that people create and follow to make themselves miserable. 

They rock gently in each other's arms for a while, Crowley committing each passing second to memory. Feeling the tears staining his shirt, feeding the wound in his chest, the roots of that broken tree that is still growing despite being split in half. 

Then Aziraphale extracts himself from Crowley's arms, cuts himself out of his heart. He doesn't say ' _I'm sorry',_ thank God. He doesn't say anything at all.

Aziraphale simply stands up and heads for the door, while Crowley wonders what would have happened if he hadn't asked for more. How much would he be allowed to have? His imagination runs wild, showing him trips together, a small cottage in Wales, restaurants, museums, an old bookshop. Only one bed. Conflicts and tears, but with their fingers interlocked.

Outside, the night is black. Dark, naked trees with their twisted branches extended like arms that threaten to steal Crowley away, and he wishes they could. The moon hangs large and red in the sky, their only guide through the darkness, but it's not enough.

And only this morning the sun shined hope into his heart, a promise that his broken heart might be whole again. Now the wind runs through his shattered windows, making his heart cold.

"Aziraphale," Crowley weaves his arms around his angel's chest in one last agonising embrace, presses his own chest to the man's back. "I will always be waiting for you," he murmurs and he knows he will. He's waited this long, he can wait a little longer, he can wait a lifetime. 

Like Liturgy of the Hours he will mark each of them with a memory of Aziraphale, like he did when he was still a priest. A perverted prayer to forbidden gods. 

But now it's time and – just like they did so many years ago—his hands withdraw inch by inch. Until he's curling on himself by the wall. Alone.

He doesn't say _I love you_ , but he thinks it, as he watches Aziraphale disappear without another word. 

He drops to his knees and weeps as soon as the doors close behind him, quiet choked sobs that he cannot contain within himself any longer. The overspill that his heart refused to contain.

The small silver crucifix shifts on its chain on his neck, catching Crowley's eye. He looks at it for a moment, then takes it off, puts it in the drawer of his nightstand, next to the half-empty box of condoms. Is it blasphemous? He didn't mean to be, he just wants to be allowed to be himself. He just wants to be happy.

This is not the end, it cannot be the end. The two of them meeting here today is proof that nothing ever ends. As long as they're still here, as long as they still feel connected to each other by this thing words cannot contain, anything can happen…

...or at least, that's what Crowley has to hope for.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] The bishop assigns a parish or a diocese (group of parishes) to become parish priests, where they are leaders of the flock. Often they're accompanied by a second, less experienced priest who is often moved around dioceses every few years until they are assigned their own parish.
> 
> [2] This happened in 2009 and was first allowed by pope Benedict XVI. Up until this point it was allowed since 1950, but on a case by case basis only.
> 
> [3] Defrocked, also called ‘laicised’ is a term meaning being expelled from the holy order.
> 
> Notes:  
> I've been an altair girl for several years and many of the experiences described (not all) are of people I've known personally. Leaving the priesthood for any reason is a heavily taboo topic in general, but in particular leaving to be with a person they love. I wanted to give those people voice.
> 
> [ Find me on tumblr - @teslatherat ](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/)


End file.
